


Copper Senses

by tal_5



Series: Circus AU [5]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, I just wanna be careful, Implied Relationships, M/M, Racism, Violence, the violence isn't too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tal_5/pseuds/tal_5
Summary: ‘Hypocrite.’As he headed towards the exit, Logan could hear muffled voices. Hearing voices around that time of night was normal enough, that wasn’t what worried him. What worried him was the fact that the voices sounded angry.Pulling back the curtain of the tent exit, he immediately noticed a small group of men and women taking a few steps towards a crumpled pile of clothing on the ground.Except he recognised the shoes haphazardly tossed to the side.And oh, that wasn’t a pile of clothes.





	Copper Senses

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing(s): Implied Logicality, platonic Logince, platonic Nate & Logan, platonic Nate & Patton, and platonic Royality
> 
> Warning: Strong language, violence, racism, panic attacks, implied disassociation, mention of court, mention of hospitals, mention of blood, mention of injuries, and mention of guns

Other than the wind being a little chilly, the night was as wonderful as ever.

Their audience adoring the show as usual, every act going as perfectly as they could, and even rumours of needing more seats due to more civilians wanting to see them perform. Everything was running smoothly, which allowed all members of the circus to relax and simply enjoy the adrenaline of performing. Both the day and night of the show had gone just as planned. Key word being _had_.

Now, Logan is sitting in the waiting room of a hospital, leg bouncing in a constant fast-paced rhythm. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four._ All he can do is wait whilst stitches are sewn into freckled flesh, pulling closed gashes and cuts. But that’s all they can do; close the physical wounds. There’s nothing the doctors can do about the images of red and blue flashing between the aroma of metal. Or about the constant clatter of stone reverberating in his mind. And what about the taste of salty copper that tempts the burning of stomach acid up his throat?

He almost wishes that these memories were fogged with panic, but if that was the case, he wouldn’t have been able to give the police such a detailed report of what happened. Was it _that_ detailed? Does his mind want him to remember? Maybe the memories _are_ being fogged with panic. But it’s his report that could send such monsters to prison.

God, he hopes they’re put away for a long, long time.

* * *

It had started with the crowd slowly lessening until every member had made it outside of the tent. Logan was climbing down from the platform in which he’d been tightrope-walking on, lightly massaging his right hip, as the usual ache from leaning to one side had begun its torture. He could see Roman and Virgil chatting idly by the front entrance, possibly saying their goodbyes as Roman enjoyed taking night-time walks.

Patton, after stretching out his limbs, ruffled his fingers through the light curls of his hair and allowed Remy to guide him out of the back exit of the tent, towards their trailer. The corners of Logan’s lips twitched subconsciously, and he decided to check on the two of them after ensuring that Terrence was alright. The performer mentioned was stacking the multiple wooden chairs he had manipulated during the show atop one another, afterwards, dragging the pile into a corner. At the sight of Logan making his way over, Terrence grinned, pearly white teeth glowing past his exhausted eyes. “What’s up, Lo? Hurting much?”

“Only slightly. I do believe I’m getting used to the strain.”

A laugh bubbled from Terrence’s throat and Logan knew it was to hide how tired he was; Terrence tended to do that. “You’d think you already would be. I mean, you’ve been doing this for five years. Are you going home now?”

With a nod, Logan covered his mouth as a yawn escaped him, apologising for the rudeness before being cut off by a scoff from his companion. “Don’t apologise. Just go sleep, it’s obvious that you need it.”

‘ _Hypocrite_.’

As he headed towards the exit, Logan could hear muffled voices. Hearing voices around that time of night was normal enough, that wasn’t what worried him. What worried him was the fact that the voices sounded _angry_.

Pulling back the curtain of the tent exit, he immediately noticed a small group of men and women taking a few steps towards a crumpled pile of clothing on the ground.

Except he recognised the shoes haphazardly tossed to the side.

And oh, _that wasn’t a pile of clothes._

There was a rush of warmth and suddenly he was crouching down beside an unconscious Patton, hair soaked in red that painted the gravel below him, and breathing in mere whispers. Whispers so shallow, in fact, that for a second, Logan truly believed that he wasn’t actually breathing at all, and that his panicked mind was simply offering him a sliver of comfort by creating the low puffs of air that crumbled through bloodied lips. Distantly, he heard the clatter of steel against gravel.

Though hesitant to touch him, the tightrope-walker proceeded to roll his friend into the recovery position. Ice flowed through his veins, causing his heart to come to an abrupt stop as the cry of pain tore through the dark atmosphere.

Unfamiliar footsteps hurried away, taking off down the street before slipping into an alley.

Behind him, Nate inhaled deeply, clutching his arm and cringing whenever his body subconsciously tried to use it. Short, quiet whimpers scratched the back of his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, seemingly trying with all his might to ease the pain simply by breathing.

Eventually, his glazed over eyes reach Logan’s and he gestures vaguely down at Patton with his head. A silent question. One that Logan doesn’t have the answer to.

~~Logan doesn’t like not knowing.~~

Instead of even attempting to answer his question, Logan’s trembling fingers fumbled for his phone and dialled nine-one-one. “Uh- Hello. Yes. My friends have been attacked.”

From there, he used every ounce of strength and stability he had to explain their location, who he was, and in what states his friends were both in.

And now, as he sits helplessly in the waiting room of a hospital, Logan blatantly ignores the pinching pain in his bottom lip; multiple layers of skin are peeled away and allow a soft crimson to trickle down his chin. He should stop. The metallic taste is burning the back of his throat, but the pain is helping him to stay grounded. Focus on the sting. The burning.

It’s only when Roman notices his slowly growing injury and puts a stop to it, that he breaks out of whatever revere his mind has decided is better for him than this current situation. His cheeks dampen. Romans arms encircle his shoulders.

He drifts.

* * *

Logan has always liked to think he’d know what to do in a stressful situation.

Stay calm, analyse the circumstances, create a solution. But apparently, he’s been wrong for the last twenty-something years of his life.

He doesn’t sleep. No, no, his brain is reeling far too hard for him to successfully relax. But his mind offers him a small release by shutting down, going on standby, going into sleep mode. He’s not sleeping, but he also isn’t completely aware of his surroundings anymore. There’s warmth, the cold seat pinching his backside, and the cold air searing the skin of his nostrils. But that’s it.

It’s odd. He isn’t panicking, like one normally would if they were suddenly taken to a place in betwixt their subconscious, he’s numb. Empty. And although he may not know what’s happening, his brain might. He can’t think too much about it at the moment.

Vaguely, a voice is murmuring a supportive melody into his ear, and there’s a buzz on his back. Up his spine. Then, down his spine. _Up. Down._

The voice is familiar. And it even seems that the words are familiar. Has he been through this kind of thing before?

_“It’s alright. Come back when you’re ready.”_

But... he’s right here?

And suddenly, it’s all a little bit too much; the buzz, the familiarity of it all, the numbness, the emptiness. He wants this to stop. He’s done. He’s ready to go back now.

There’s a harsh buzzing in his chest. It hurts. His lungs are constricting. He can’t _breathe_.

His eyes open. Roman smiles. “Feeling any better?”

White walls. Vomit-green floors. There’s a poster about breast cancer on the wall across from him. He lets out a deliberate sigh. “Yes.”

He wants to ask about Patton, about Nate. Is there any news about them? By the crease in Roman’s brow, he already knows there isn’t. What are Patton’s injuries? Why wasn’t he breathing? Wait, no. He _was_ breathing, just not a lot.

Usually, affection of any kind would send spiders crawling down his arms and down his back, but right now, he allows Roman to hold him. Roman would never hurt him. Never.

Minutes pass, he isn’t sure how many, until finally, they receive news from the doctor that Patton has awakened and that Nate will be fit to leave soon. Although Logan should be hyper alert to what other information she offers them, his ears are filling with a strangely familiar buzzing. But by the wince and flash of sympathy that crosses Roman’s face, Logan can guess that Nate has possibly broken his arm. Something they can relate on, he supposes.

“Patton’s had a CT scan,” Roman echoes the doctor’s words, “he’s managed to get away with just a severe _external_ head injury. No brain damage, just one hell of a concussion. But he'll be okay, they think.”

“I can’t remember...” Logan trails off. What happened exactly? He wasn’t there when Patton was attacked.

With a ‘humph’ of muffled fury, Roman explains that Patton had been approached and harassed by the drunk group of racist strangers, screaming slurs at him until one eventually pulled out a gun. Instead of shooting him, however, the woman had merely smashed the butt of the gun against Patton’s head until he stumbled backwards and lost consciousness. “Apparently,” Roman continues, “the only place even half deserving of ‘his kind’ is the circus. Fucking _disgusting_.”

Logan recognises the bubbling heat in his friend’s tone and grips his hand, trying to encourage him to stay calm. At least for now. They’d go to court and deal with them later.

A deep exhalation tells Logan that everything will remain as it is for now.

* * *

Later, Nate tells them the whole story, from start to finish. But Logan’s brain, feeling rather unhelpful, doesn’t store any more details and forces him to live in ignorant bliss for a while longer.

However, he does keep in mind that Nate’s broken arm was also caused by the butt of that gun, and was caused while he was trying to protect them. Logan will find a way to make it up to him. Just not now. Right now, all he wants to do is see Patton’s smile. But he knows that that’s probably a stretch. He’s awake, but that doesn’t mean he’s smiling.

As the doctor leads them down a chilly hallway, Logan follows the green pattern in the floor until they finally get to a door that reads: ‘Patient Room 203’. They enter.

He’s smiling. Because _of course_ he is.

“Hey guys! Look,” he lifts his arm up to reveal a small band-aid shaped like a paw print, “they said it's a dog paw print, but I kind of think it’s a cat paw print. Thoughts?”

Smiling, Roman takes to agreeing with him, whilst Nate argues that its definitely a bird’s foot, likely just to start a lively debate of some kind. Logan doesn’t quite know what to do, what to say. So, he decides that his brain has won this battle, and sits in the seat beside Patton’s hospital bed, paying absolutely no attention to their conversation and simply surrounding himself with the soothing pitch of Patton’s voice.

He smiles.


End file.
